Paths
by jehanna
Summary: No matter how he goes or how much he repents, death hounds Karel like a beast.


Karel would never consider himself a good man. A recovered man, a normal man, yes. But not a good one, and he never would be.

Who was he to seek redemption, when the blood of uncountable stacks of bodies stained the ground beneath his feet?

He couldn't bring the dead back to life. But did that mean that now that he was free, he would not help those are still alive?

They would never make up for his sins. He knows this, he is fine with this. The least he could do was use his sane mind, his healthy body to ease the burden of life for others.

He would use his experience to prevent those with his likeness. It was startling, how many young swordsmen did not yet realize the weight of what they do, how easy it is to fall in love with growing deadlier.

The path of the sword led to only one place: death.

Whether it was used for good or bad was entirely up the user.

And so the path split into two: those who fight to defend others, those who fight to defend themselves.

How delicious power had been.

How wonderful it would have been if people revered the Karel of the past like they did the one now, unaware of the horrors he caused. He would have enjoyed it.

It only made him feel sick.

So he would turn as many away from it as he could. It had taken him too long to realize a sword is not strength, only a mere tool. Only something to personify, to project his desire to be powerful and feared onto. In a way, it had become its own being, a phantom tricking him into thinking he was manipulated by some metaphysical, ghostly beast. He had become one with it.

It would occur to him later that he hadn't been taught the difference between executing and slaughtering, only the sword and how to use it, and none of the consequences it carries. Only to become better, to become stronger, untouchable.

What purpose was there to becoming stronger, if once you reached the top, there was no longer anything to achieve?

What would have happened if he reached the top?

But Karel decided that there was no use in 'what-ifs', nor regretting. There was no fixing the past. But there was fixing the future, and so he would work to make sure the 'path of the sword' sizzled and burned to the ground. He would accept any punishment he was given, if he got to steer yet another innocent, clean slated youth from the loss of their humanity, the loss of themselves.

But if the divine were going to punish him...Couldn't they have just taken him instead?

Karla's passing had been so sudden. Not unexpected, but sudden. The fluid that sat in her lungs had increased and her appetite had worn thinner, but she didn't struggle to breathe, she could finish a plate. Even so, it was clear she was weak. She went to sleep weary and struggling, but bright eyed and hopeful.

And like that, she had gone overnight. It was a temporary visit he owed for witnessing it. Karel had woken up first, to the sound of Fir's sobbing. She sat on her knees beside Karla's bed, singular and just big enough so that Karla could be more comfortable. She was incoherent when he brought a hand to her shoulder, lifted her up as much as his aging bones could and tucked her head into his neck.

Bartre had wished he could have been there, that any of them could. There had been no signs of distress, but there was no one to say whether she stayed asleep or awoke in pain.

Perhaps it was better they never know.

And like that, Fir departed naught a week later. And Karel soon after. Such numbness, he'd never felt it before, not even when he was separated from his sword, his identity. This time, he lost much more than himself.

What chances, that Karel would meet his savior again. The purest soul he had ever seen, had ever spared. Lucius had aged as well, but had an undeniable demeanor unique to him. An angel among humans, if they existed. His smile exposes lines in his cheeks and wrinkles under his eyes. Glowing, absolutely radiant, a light that had drawn Karel in but intimidated him more than any enemy ever could have.

Something in him at the time had known to lay down his sword. In battle, the monk would have never stood a chance. And because of that, the urge to slaughter drained from him, knowing it would not improve his skill at all to end him in a single slash.

And like that, all in one moment, his sword was a sword. A tool, no longer a limb. No longer him. Only metal to pick up or put down.

It was jarring, startling, how suddenly exhaustion had overtaken him. Had overtaken not the sword...but Karel, the real one. A conscious that had been awake this whole time, but never truly in control.

And somehow, Lucius has seen that. Somehow, Lucius had seen someone there, someone that could be saved. Someone worth saving. Somehow, he understood. And with no fear, he shared the infinite kindness only someone like him could hold.

They'd talked for hours, he still made wonderful tea. Karel was introduced to the orphans, not surprised Lucius would fall into such a path. It was obvious how deeply they loved Lucius, and how dearly he loved them back.

So when news reaches him that the orphanage had been set ablaze, the children safe but father fallen, that numbness had returned to him.

Again, he travels. He gives a passing glance to a casket behind a crowd of monks and disappears to wherever Father Sky and Mother Earth will take him.

Fir asks him to learn the way of the sword, so as to follow in her mother's footsteps. Karla had been one of few who did good with the imaginary strength and bravery a sword gave you, but it was too easy to cross that thin line.

He makes sure Fir will decide things for herself, the ways of the world won't hold her down. She would never hurt a soul, not unless necessary. If something were to give her strength, he would rather it be anything but a sword. But Karla was gone, and it's not too long until Bartre too falls in battle.

The heavens mock him, taking anyone he had cared for. There could be no other explanation to this chain of events than his own divine punishment. He was merely a murderer, a man-turned-tool who had not deserved a second chance. A man who had taken it anyways. And it was because of this, that the most happy, most worthy people he had ever known had to die instead of him. All his fault. The bloodshed he started would never end, and he was a fool to think it ever would, weapon in hand or no.

Thus, when Fir looks to him for guidance and comfort in the absence of rotting parents, he disappears. At least if she doesn't die too, someone of his family long gone would survive. His curse would never touch her. He could only pray that she breaks the cycle, that she becomes herself and not a sword.


End file.
